


One Date, Three Meals, and the End of Things.

by seenonlyfromadistance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seenonlyfromadistance/pseuds/seenonlyfromadistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's two days later, when Sherlock is cleaning out the pockets of his coat and trousers, that he realizes he still has Jim Moriarty's phone number.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Date, Three Meals, and the End of Things.

**Author's Note:**

> Written before season 2, but in honor of season 3, I thought I'd finally post it here. 
> 
> (it was originally on posted on livejournal in 2010)

\--

_I gave you my number... I thought you might call._

\-----

It's two days later, when Sherlock is cleaning out the pockets of his coat and trousers, that he realizes he still has Jim Moriarty's phone number.

He was about to head to the dry cleaners (his favorite suit being covered in ash and debris) when he stumbled upon the slip of paper. Shoved into one of his pockets was the card Moriarty had left for him at the hospital.

The string of digits stared at him like a taunt, wrinkled on the crumpled slip of card-stock. Bright blue script, slightly tilted and written in a casual, near feminine hand. Sherlock held it with unsteady fingers. Ah. That explained the handwriting on the envelope. If only he had looked at the card closer when it had first been delivered. Moriarty had left him a clue.

A string of numbers signed 'Jim', with a little heart.

When was John coming home? If he was due back soon, Sherlock could stop being tempted by this gift, chuck the card and not think of it again... He and John would go get Chinese and stay at home and watch a movie Sherlock usually would hate, but with John he would almost enjoy. But if it was later, if John wasn't due home soon... Sherlock might have time to give Moriarty a ring.

John wouldn't want him to call. John would want him to stop pursuing Moriarty, stop putting them at risk, but--

Yes. Yes, he had time.

-

"Hello?" The familiar voice sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine. Moriarty sounded nearly distracted, and an image of the man holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder while working on something with this hands (a computer, a bomb), flashed through Sherlock's mind.

"It's me."

There was a brief pause, a sharp inhale of excited breath.

"Oh, hello indeed, darling." The voice on the other end of the line perked up, trilled into high tones and dipped low. "What a pleasant surprise. I didn't expect you to call."

"I didn't expect you to answer."

"I only have the one number, my dear. It makes business complicated if I have more than that." Sherlock heard a slight chuckle across the line, accompanied by the clack of computer keys. "But I'm afraid I am working, my sweet. I can't chat just now."

Sherlock almost felt... put out.

"Ah."

"Not to worry, Sherlock, darling. Let's meet up, shall we? Have a meal?" He could almost hear the smirk on the man's face. Sherlock remained silent, waiting. "I'll take that as a Yes." The voice had turned low and serious, all boyishness and playfulness gone. "Wonderful." Moriarty rambled off an address and time, and then as suddenly at it had disappeared, the light charm returned to his voice. "I can't wait to see you. How should I dress? What would you prefer?"

An uncomfortable feeling rose in Sherlock's chest, and as Moriarty broke into a fit of giggles, Holmes hung up the phone.

-

The last time Sherlock Holmes had seen Jim Moriarty, the man had been wide eyed and running, wearing a sharp blue suit and surrounded by whorls of smoke and fire. His skin had been a bright spot against the darkness engulfing the pool.

This time, Moriarty is leaning against a light post, waiting patiently, his expression half-lidded and lazily content. He's still and comfortable. There's a small bandage on his forehead and a scratch on his cheek, a scrape on his chin and a small cut across his nose. The blast knocked him over then. He looks more damaged than Sherlock ended up being. Or John. They turned out fine and Jim Moriarty smashed his face on the ground.

As much as that image brings a smirk to his lips, Sherlock is disturbed by the man's choice of dress. He's wearing what looks like a purposeful imitation of John's wardrobe, though thinner, sharper, younger. More expensive. Thin, dark jeans and pointed oxford shoes. A shirt patterned with plaid, in a warm color, coupled with a dark cardigan. A brown blazer, in corduroy.

The uncomfortable feeling rises again.

"Hello, sweet." Moriarty pushes himself off the lamp-post, and saunters across the busy sidewalk towards Sherlock. He takes the detectives arm, tucking their elbows together. "I know a fabulous little Indian place down the way. What do you say?"

-

Dinner is lovely and casual. Conversation is easy. Despite himself, despite his nerves and excitement and fear, Sherlock finds himself smiling along, laughing even. Moriarty makes a delightful companion, always a quirk to his lips, always nodding along, always able to keep the conversation going in a way that Sherlock had never been successful at.

He couldn't figure out how much of this charming young man was an act. How much was false, and how much of the psychopath-monster he'd seen at the pool was real. Who was Jim Moriarty, really?

"So, Jim," Sherlock says with a hint of disgust, a drip of sarcasm, "When I called, you said you were working. Where is it that you work?"

Jim smirks, his eyes narrowing.

"You know where I work, Sherlock." Voice smooth and low, Moriarty plucks his glass off the table and takes a sip. His eyes glitter over the rim.

"I.T. at the hospital?" A smirk and a wink was all the respose he got. "Isn't that a bit dull for you?"

The response is sharp and immediate.

"Isn't John Watson a bit dull for you?" They stare at each other for a charged moment. But, with a roll of his shoulders, Moriarty disappates all tension from the table. "Let's get out of here." Moriarty pulls out a thin wallet, casually drops 70 quid on the table and stands up. "Come along, dear."

-

They walk hand in hand along a quiet street. It's the time of night where shops are closing up, street lights are coming on. To a casual observer, they appear like any other couple out for an evening stroll. But they are not. Sherlock is stiff as a board, his body full of tension. Moriarty is loose, comfortable, leaning his head against Sherlock's arm for a few steps at a time.

"Isn't this nice?" Moriarty breathes as they stop for a moment to look at a selection of flowers. "I'm very proud of you, you know. You knew exactly where I was going to be, and when. You could have brought the police, turned me in." He smiles, looking up at Sherlock through his dark eyelashes. "But I knew you wouldn't." With a tug on Sherlock's hand, Moriarty starts them walking again. "I hope you didn't want to bring home any for your pet," he says, gesturing back towards the flowers. "Well, if you do, maybe you can pick some up later. I wouldn't mind flowers either, you know."

Sherlock is flustered by how smooth Jim's hands are, how soft and dry and warm. The human part within himself wants Moriarty to be cold to the touch. A doll, a monster. Not real, not a person. A simple villain. Something false and flat and easy to hate. But Jim Moriarty is someone's son, someone's brother. He has a heartbeat, just like anyone else. Just like John.

"I'm glad I was right, Sherlock. Or else we wouldn't be sharing this lovely evening together." His grip on Sherlock's hand tightens as they approach the end of the street. "And lucky us, it has been lovely, don't you think?"

Unsure how to respond, Sherlock makes a sound that's somewhere between "mm-hmm" and "hmm-mm".

"I knew you'd agree."

\---

They sit on a bench along the edge of a park. Moriarty leans in one corner, legs crossed, one arm slung across the back of the bench, behind Sherlock's back.

Sherlock thinks to himself that he should just leave. Stand up and walk away, go back to Baker Street. Over the course of the evening, Sherlock has decided that Jim is doing nothing to keep him here, except be terribly thrilling and interesting. Jim knows exactly when Sherlock wants quiet, when he wants conversation, when to touch, when not to touch. No one knows him like that. Not John, not Mycroft, not even himself, he thinks sometimes. This is a moment of quiet separation, as they sit on opposite sides of the bench, not asked for but exactly what he wanted.

He should leave, but then Jim turns to him and looks at him with those impossibly dark eyes. He looks soft and warm in the glow of the street lamps. Like an old friend. He smiles, just enough to show his sharp little teeth.

"So, my dear," He says, his accent sliding off his tongue, against his teeth. The hand behind Sherlock's back dances across his shoulder, floating down to settle against Sherlock's wrist. "Your place?" His eyes turn hard, cold. Something shoots down Sherlock's spine.

"John is home." Sherlock hears himself say, through a fog of whirling thoughts.

"Ah, I suppose he is." He pauses, quietly thoughtful. "I could take you back to mine, but then you'd know where I live." The cadence of his voice jumps, changing rhythms and tones sharply. The sing-song quality of his last few words remind Sherlock of their conversation at the pool.

This Jim Moriarty seemed an entirely different man, until that last sentence. The crooked smile falls off Moriarty's face. Sherlock's beginning to think that it's hard for him to control what his voice does. And maybe this is something Sherlock can use, something he can hold over Moriarty's head. 

"I've upset you. I can tell. Fine, fine, I'll take you back to my flat." There's a glimmer in his eye, and he smiles, and despite everything, despite his better instincts, his better logic, and that strange feeling in his chest and stomach, Sherlock smiles back.

-

Moriarty takes him across town on foot and on the tube, avoiding Sherlock's favorite mode of transportation. They sit close together on the quiet train, Moriarty humming to himself, his fingers tapping at his companions knee.

As it turns out, against all expectations, Jim Moriarty lives in a small flat on the third floor of his building. The building is simple, unassuming, modern but not flashy. The flat itself is far simpler than Sherlock had anticipated, far simpler than Baker Street even.

It's nearly a loft. One large room with a closet, a bathroom, and a kitchen half hidden under an archway of plaster. The walls are white, the bed is large and unmade. Hanging off the bedpost is the tie Moriarty was wearing when Sherlock first truly met him, the dark one with little skulls on it. Two mid-century chairs are arranged against one wall. There's a small, antique desk in one corner, and on it is placed (Sherlock can't contain a smile after noticing this) a laptop and the wires and mess of an in-progress bomb.

"Sorry everything's a bit of a mess," Jim says, prancing to the kitchen, "I wasn't expecting guests."

Sherlock takes this time to examine the flat more closely. Like in Sherlock's flat, there's a wall covered in pictures and papers, connected by pins and string and sometimes there's a bit of cloth or a feather pinned there as well. Research. There's a bookshelf, crammed full of books and knick-knacks and souvenirs, trophies from events Sherlock does not know and that he cannot interpret the meaning of. There's a bottle of nail polish, a carefully folded scarf, a beautiful crystal glass on the top shelf. Sherlock picks out a mannequin's hand, a jeweled tie pin, the interior mechanisms of a clock. An origami sailing ship. All of them mementos.

There are no pictures, but then, Sherlock doesn't have pictures of his family lying about either.

All this yet again reminds him that Jim Moriarty is a man just like any other.

There's a skeleton tucked away in one corner of the room, on a stand. The type of skeleton that would be used in medical classes. Sherlock is drawn to this more than any other object. The bones are creamy and delicate, and criss-crossed with little black lines.  Sherlock tries to interpret the meaning of them, but can't quite figure it out. Not enough data yet.

"Ah," Moriarty says, poking his head out from the kitchen. "You've met my friend. I used to keep him in the closet, but--" He giggles and disappears again.

"I have a skull," Sherlock says to no one.

"Do you, darling?" The unseen Moriarty chirps in, sounding positively delighted. "How alike we are."

He skips back out from the kitchen, his jacket off and top button undone.

"Can I get you anything?" There is something almost shy in his tone.

Sherlock shakes his head, still entranced by the skeleton. Moriarty sneaks up behind him.

When Sherlock turns around, suspicious at the quiet, Jim is waiting for him, and they are chest to chest. Those dark eyes are forced to look up at Sherlock just slightly, and Sherlock is forced to look down. There's a peek of chest hair visible beneath Moriarty's open collar. It's more enticing to Sherlock than he would have expected.

It takes mental effort for Sherlock not to think how Moriarty is just slightly taller than John. Just enough.

His skin is too smooth though. Too expensively moisturized to be John's.

Sherlock stops thinking about this when Moriarty presses his mouth to the corner of Sherlock's lips. They stare at each other, black and blue together, and then Jim moves his mouth to cover Sherlock's own.

Things remain quiet. Sherlock places his hands on Jim's shoulders, Jim slides his hand up Sherlock's neck to hold his face.

The number of people Sherlock Holmes has kissed, seriously, with tongue: Four. Including Jim Moriarty, right now.

His mind hasn't quite caught up with what's happening, but he knows that he's enjoying the feeling of lips against his own, of fingers on his ears, of a firm body pressing against his chest.

Moriarty breathes into him and against him with force. When Jim's eyes are closed, his forehead furrows in what Sherlock would usually identify as frustration. When his eyes are open, Sherlock sees mostly their darkness and the emptiness of the rest of his face.

He can't quite understand why Moriarty is clinging to him so desperately, and tugging at his shirt, and pressing his fingertips into his skin. 

But he doesn't mind it.

-

Not much happens between them, really, in the end.

It takes four minutes and six seconds for them to strip one another to their boxers after that first set of kisses. They tumble across the floor and onto Moriarty's bed, where they wriggle and writhe together, a set of limbs and muscles and hands.

Where Sherlock doesn't know much of what he's doing, he still manages to find hip, collarbone, shoulder blade with his long fingers. He runs his hands over Moriarty's chest and down to his soft stomach. Jim is more skilled. He seems to know exactly where to touch to make Sherlock shiver and keen. His soft hands find lean abdomen and thin arms. His fingers skate over Sherlock's long neck and dig into his upper thigh.

But never does he slide below the elastic of Sherlock's boxers, always hesitating, always skirting away. Nervous. Anxious. Unwilling.

Shy in the same way that Sherlock is. He licks his lips and Sherlock holds him close. It feels wrong and right at the same time.

They continue to kiss all the while. Tongues slide together with alternating languor and force. They fight and acquiesce. Touches are hard and soft, rough and tender. Jim's hipbone is hard against the soft flesh at the front of Sherlock's hips; Sherlock's fingers press bruises into Jim's arms. Sherlock is not necessarily a good kisser, but Jim is, his guidance makes the experience a pleasant one.

The detective's long fingers investigate as much of Jim as he can get his hands on. His touch discovers one scar on the criminal's back, long and smoother than the surrounding skin. The roughness of Jim's stubble is balanced and perfectly juxtaposed by the terrible softness of his lips and the curve of his ear. He brushes over the scratches on Jim's face and neck, runs his mouth over a bruise on Jim's chest, tongues at a dark blotch of bruising under Jim's ribs and palms a scab on his elbow.

Sherlock's hands settle on his nemesis' neck (how many times in the past two days has he imagined this exact placement of palms and digits?) and press, ever so slightly.

Jim gives a low groan, his eyes flickering shut. Sherlock presses harder and Jim bucks his hips.

The look of Jim's lips trembling slightly, of his arching back, the feeling of his lips brushing against Sherlock's on accident. It gives Sherlock thrills that he's not sure he's ever felt before.

-

They lie together that night, curled back to chest. Sherlock wraps his arms about Jim's body, stockier than his own, though still lean and trim. He clutches tightly to Jim's shoulders, to his chest, tucks one arm under Jim's neck and curls it back to touch his hair. There's a hand on Sherlock's forearm, holding him in place. The other hand is curled around Sherlock's own, up by their heads. Sometimes Sherlock touches Jim's hair, sometimes he memorizes the feel of Jim's hand.

This feels intimate and comfortable.

Not violent. Not dangerous. Not antagonistic.

Nice.

Sherlock breathes in the scent of him: sweat, salt, soap, floral shampoo, the lingering spice of curry, the tang of cologne and deodorant and pheromones. Perhaps, he thinks, he picks up the slightest hint of John on Jim's body. Or maybe he's detecting himself. Or the scent of Baker street, which he and John have come to share.

No, Sherlock thinks, chiding himself. Do not think of John. For the love of anything, stop thinking of John.

As a distraction, Sherlock nuzzles into the soft spot behind Moriarty's ear. Jim wriggles back against him, making a pleased noise in his throat. He's mostly asleep already.

Sherlock Holmes presses a kiss to the base of his greatest enemy's skull.

-

When Sherlock wakes up next, the sun is on the verge of rising and all he can see is Jim's sleeping face. Moriarty had rolled over, his legs now tangled with Sherlock's, his hands between their bodies.

It strikes Sherlock like a brick wall: _I need to leave._

But the bed is very comfortable, and Jim is very warm.

"I need to leave." Jim grumbles a response as his hand finds Sherlock's shoulder.

It takes nearly a whole minute for Sherlock to extricate himself. During which time, Jim has woken up fully, and taken to trying to drag Sherlock back to bed. For a moment, Sherlock forgets that Jim is his greatest enemy, and therefore what they have just done is wrong, and in that moment as the light begins to stream in through the windows, Sherlock and Jim wrestle and laugh. Jim pulls at his arms and kicks his legs and they tumble over each other and giggle and breath heavily. Moriarty brushes their lips together whispering, "Please, Sherlock, don't," and they lie on the bed for a long moment.

Then Sherlock comes to his senses and sits up.

"Sherlock, darling, if you must go, leave me something to remember you by. A souvenir, if you will." The smile on the man's face turns Sherlock's stomach. So he gives Jim's soft stomach a soft punch. The man laughs, loudly and brazenly. "Fine, fine. I'll give you a gift instead."

He slides out of bed like a cat. Perfectly graceful. From one drawer of the desk, he pulls out a key on a ring. Sherlock finds himself drawn to the knobs of spine that run down Jim's back, the dip of muscles. He spots the scar he felt the previous night. It's longer than he had estimated.

"For you," Jim says, pressing the key into Sherlock's hand. "You're invited over any time." He winks at Sherlock and his fingers linger at the detectives wrist. Sherlock pulls on his jacket, all the time staring at the curious gift in his hand. "It's not a bomb, stop looking so suspicious." He pushes at Sherlock's hand, an encouragement. "My key, darling, take it."

Jim pulls on a dressing gown and walks him downstairs to the front door and leans against the frame.

"Well." Sherlock says, straightening his cuffs. Jim Moriarty smiles a warm, quiet, gentle smile.

"Until we meet again, my dear." He blows a kiss and closes the door in Sherlock's face.

\-----

_Why do you do this?_

_I'm bored. And lonely._  
  
\-----

The second time he finds himself in Jim's flat, the man is sitting at his desk, finishing up the bomb. It's weeks later, and the scratch on his cheek is gone. The bandage on his forehead has been removed, revealing a nicely healing cut.

Sherlock doesn't knock, just slips in quietly, but Jim turns around right away. He's wearing a v-neck and jeans, all quite reminiscent to their first encounter in the hospital. How casual he is makes Sherlock slightly uncomfortable. He smiles that charming, soft smile and turns back to his work.

That evening, they order take away and sit on the floor to eat it. Moriarty doesn't have a proper kitchen table, and he keeps apologizing for it. They joke and laugh and Jim keeps stealing bites of Sherlock's food.

"Ah yes," Sherlock teases, "You really are a master thief."

It's comfortable, all of it. The entire evening. They fit together too well, and everything seems too... normal.

Jim talks about his mates from work and tells anecdotes of their misadventures at various pubs. Sherlock chuckles, because really, Jim Moriarty is a very good story teller, and regrets that he doesn't have any stories like that to share. Jim, who is certainly madder than he is, has _friends_ of a sort. He goes out in the evening and chats and manages to have social interactions with people less clever than he is. It's astonishing. And despite this inherent difference between them, Sherlock's regret is not that he does not have friends, but rather that he cannot fully contribute to the conversation. They can't trade stories back and forth, because Sherlock Holmes only has the one friend now, and his college stories aren't at all amusing.

Sherlock has never felt normal in his life, but with Jim, things are easy. Things are fun.

 And John is at Sarah's, so it all seems alright. What could it hurt, really?

\-----

_I don't intend to live past forty, do you? The way I figure it, either I'll kill you and die of grief and boredom, or you'll kill me. Either way, it'll happen in the next eight years._

\-----

The third time is a week after that, after solving a particularly fast paced case. Sherlock sneaks in again, without knocking, only to find Moriarty in bed. Well, not in bed, but rather on his bed, asleep. He's laid out over the blankets, hands limp and curled, a book flopped closed next to him. It's late, and the lamp next to the bed casts a warm glow on the room. The shadows are dark and hazy.

A rush of exhaustion falls over him, and Sherlock slides into bed behind Jim.

In the morning, they lay in bed for over an hour, watching each other and dozing and occasionally speaking. They have coffee, sitting on Jim's bed; Sherlock drinks his black and Jim enjoys his creamy. Jim flips through the newspaper from the previous day, and points out to Sherlock a murder he arranged.

Then he leaps out of bed and returns with a plate of scones and croissants.

\-----

_You're heartless._

_No. I only have a heart for you._

\-----

The fourth time, Sherlock brings take away with him. He finds Jim sitting on his bed, holding a marker, covered in dust, blood and bruises. The skeleton has been pulled away from it's corner and stands in front of Jim's knees. The sight stops Sherlock in his tracks, and he stares silently, waiting to see what Moriarty will do.

But he does nothing, just sits and stares at the wall, his eyes empty, his body slouched. Sherlock puts the food in the kitchen and sits next to Jim on the bed. Neither of them speak.

After half an hour of this, Sherlock goes into the bathroom and gets a washcloth and some hot water. He peels off Jim's dirty clothes and washes his skin, cleaning off grit and grime to reveal smooth skin, bruises and scars. Moriarty flinches when Sherlock touches his ribs, recoils when he wipes over his collar bone, hisses as he grips his wrist.

"What happened?"

It is at this point that Jim finally meets Sherlock's eyes.

"A job went badly. My client came after me. Somehow, he found me. I was negligent, I suppose, in covering my tracks." Sherlock wipes a clot off his chest. "Domestic bliss will do that, won't it? Make one negligent." The glint in his eye is cold and hard, and feeling spiteful, Sherlock gives a quick squeeze to Jim's clearly injured wrist. After an exclamation and a growl, Moriarty continues. "He found me, and there was a... physical confrontation." The familiar glitter returns to Jim's eyes, the playful one.

"What did you do?"

Jim turns to him stoically, his expression, if anything at all, pleased. "I smashed his head against the sidewalk until he left me alone."

John must be getting to him, Sherlock thinks, because this idea makes him feel vaguely sick. A year ago, he wouldn't have cared at all. But now--

The lines on the skeleton represent breaks and fractures. Of course. How obvious.

He's figured it out. The mystery is solved. There are more of them than Sherlock would have expected from a man who doesn't like to get his hands dirty. He wonders about the line that crosses the cheekbone, the three splits in the collarbone. There's a crack along the wrist where the ink is still wet.

He stands up, wringing out the cloth. Still undecided about what to do, he sits with Jim on the bed, and they eat the cool take away, and say no more than two words to each other ("Pass the--" "Would you--")

"You're mad at me, aren't you?" Jim says later, standing in the kitchen in his boxers, cleaning dishes. "I can tell."

Sherlock says nothing, but lets himself out and doesn't come back.

\-----

_Isn't the view lovely, my dear? I'm glad to see you again. You should know that. I genuinely am._

\-----

In the end, they will meet at the top of the Reichenbach Falls. Jim will be there first, and stand waiting, a silhouette against the mist. They will fight, and kiss and fall, and Sherlock will hear Jim's shout and then watch the crunching destruction of his shoulder as he collides with the rocks below. There will be a sharp crack as his skull follows suit.

Sherlock will be unharmed, save for a few scratches and a pounding in his head, and he will climb down the cliff face and sit with Jim in the mist as the other man writhes in pain and slowly dies. Jim's face will be covered in blood, seeping out from under his hairline.

Crouching by his side, Sherlock will trace where he imagines in the cracks in Moriarty's skull to be. Under his touch, the other man will hiss out sharp breaths. When he stops touching, his fingertips will be covered in blood.

"I'll trace this onto your skeleton," Sherlock will say. To alleviate the strained angle of Moriarty's neck, he will gently lift his enemies head onto his lap and stroke his hair as things come to an end.

John will yell for Sherlock from the top of the falls.

Neither of them are forty, and Jim's dark eyes are wet.

\-----


End file.
